


Rarity

by regnant



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Arranged Marriages, Drabbles, F/M, Future Fic, Gen, Pre-Series, crackships, rarepairs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-25 04:43:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12523252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regnant/pseuds/regnant
Summary: The Maiden dances through the sky, she lives in every lover's sigh.A collection of crackships, rare pairs, and other miscellaneous works written at the behest of my peers.





	1. Sixth

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! If you have a request, please leave it down below.
> 
> This chapter was requested by an anon on tumblr: unfortunately, they never told me who they were.

She had thought she might be used to the brushing of gums at her breast by now, but the dull ache has started to set in again.

It's only half as bad as the one in her back. The sting is twice as strong as last time, and she wonders how long she'll be abed.

Ebony hair brushes over her dark shoulders as she turns to meet his indigo gaze. The pain dissipates in waves, for the crown prince brings the moon and her tides wherever he goes.

"He has your look, my love."

The melancholy of his eyes is almost broken as husband bites his lip. It is eerie to see a fierce scaled beast reflected in so delicate a joy, _a being we made_ , yet here he is.

"Of course, sweet." Rhaegar's silver lashes hang into the nighttime pools of his vision as they dip, as though some explanation lay written on the floor in some language that only he knows, like the cracks of those ruins he likes so much. Elia often wonders what he sees there. A sad smile brightens the moonlight of his face, almost like a secret locked behind his lips, even as they move. "It was foretold."

It has always been said that the Targaryens have ghosted just between greatness and madness, and were Rhaegar anything like his father, many would call this a delusion. With the warmth the child brings to her heart, though, it is harder to deny. With Father's breath and Mother's fangs, the child's fate is clear. He will rain sinuous flame on those that might have the misfortune to litter his path.

"And you're sure?"

Husband's face hardens, as though the question were a slap. "I have never been more sure of anything."

Big violet eyes drink the world above, meeting her dark ones, and a silver tuft falls into their babe's face as he grows stronger before her very eyes.

"Aegon." _The Sixth of His Name._ The name tastes foreign, almost bland on her Dornish tongue, but the princess knows that Rhaegar will not be moved, that he will make up in flame what he lacks in spice. _The dragon has three heads._

Elia can't help but think that if there is to be a third dragon, she may not be strong enough to birth him. She wonders how many times she'll meet these indigo eyes, if husband is right after all, if she'll even live to see the prince fulfill his promises.


	2. Grey Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany/Robb, super AU, vaguely based in book canon. Requested by tumblr user seenik a thousand years ago.

_"She wants her son alive, or the men who killed him dead."_

Not even dragonfire can warm her here.

She can scarcely imagine why Ser Jorah told her that he prayed for home all those moons ago, should his feet have met this sort of grey waste. Stone spires atop high walls hulk their dominance of the North from every angle, and Dany thinks it a wonder that the ground beneath them may manage not to groan and heave. Icicles drip from the evergreens framing the masonry in mirth, the horizon only otherwise interrupted by the heraldry whipping in the snowy winds Drogon had so hated on the way here. She'd been sure all of that ice in his nose would make him sneeze.

 _Winterfell_.

Though there _is_ something eerily familiar about his bastard brother, her violet eyes have been trained on the young lord since they arrived. Viserys had told her a thousand tales about the Usurper's dogs and their foul stench in life, yet his words seem to die here in the chill of the air, its soft whistle. There is something oddly charming about the way that his wild red hair billows from beneath his crown of bronze and iron, like flame half tamed by melting snow. She savors the chill of his defiant eyes, ever refusing to be dulled by death.

She wonders what the scar might look like, if it is yet to be a hurt forever, if it might need soothing. If it is half so dreadful as the necklace of scar tissue that his mother wears, mute and greyed in her second life brought about by fire, she wouldn't dare doubt it. Daenerys doesn't doubt the cruelties of these monsters hiding under their seaside rock, these craven creatures with sun for hair.

It is no wonder, not for true, not after Father.

Grievous as the evidence writ upon his chest might be, she doesn't think she'd mind it. He glows as bright as the comet that foretold all of this, even amidst the dingy landscape that surrounds them. If anything might warm her...

Perhaps the winds have dizzied her, but suddenly, it feels so clear. Fire lives in his hair, and in hers ice, and together they may hiss and make sweet vapor. What could be more fitting than a consort with his sword crown as she sits on a throne of the same? Robb is steadfast, Robb is strength. She has found him here, unshaken, as he reclaims his own red door, his own lemon tree. No, he is far from one of the Usurper's dogs. He was born later, born greater, than any of that.

He is not a dog. He is a _direwolf_.


End file.
